


Kuebiko - Exhaustion of Senseless Violence

by Fremdshamen



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst and Feels, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Renegade, Hurt Dick Grayson, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It happens in the first paragraph and off screen, Jason Todd Deserves Better, Lost & Found, M/M, No beta we die like mne, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parent Bruce Wayne, non-standard abo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24831253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fremdshamen/pseuds/Fremdshamen
Summary: A fight against a known enemy should not have ended like this. This was a variable that he hadn't seen coming, and he only has himself to blame.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson/Other(s), Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first published story here on AO3! This is only partially finished, so keep an eye out for the rest as it comes - I have no set schedule right now, and I'm wrestling with a major plot change that throws the story into (slight) chaos, and I have no beta (hit me up if you're interested in doing free editing work!) so it'll come as I stitch it together. I've also only been reading DC for about two years and it is CONFUSING, so any and all weirdness with plotlines is down to me. And also the canon divergence thing. 
> 
> But mostly just me.
> 
> A warning straight up - this story deals with the serious abuse of a minor in a way that can be potentially triggering. The tags will be updated as needed, and I'll warn at the beginning of each chapter if there's anything serious in that section. Nothing is graphic in this story, but it is heavily implied or shown in vague terms, and future chapters will contain non-graphic depictions of child abuse, non-consensual drug use, medical procedures, and body modification. 
> 
> This is also a non-standard A/B/O piece, because most A/B/O set in current times doesn't seem to really deal with the ramifications of inter-pack politics. In the wild, wolf packs are actually family units, with the various individuals meeting different pack needs, and the pups leaving to establish their own territories and packs as they age. The pack dynamics most people are familiar with come from wolves in captivity, which is a whole different ballgame. So I've tried to give the A/B/O thing a real-world spin into the crazy, fantasy world of comic books, because my brain decided to try and figure out how modern society might regulate something like the A/B/O system.

The official story was that Slade Wilson had entered Wayne Manor with unknown motivation, though most likely a contract of some kind. There were security logs indicating where three of the Manor’s protective layers had been triggered, leaving Wilson already injured prior to entering the Manor, though the security cameras had all been disabled and so there was no visual record.

The official story is that the family butler had been awake at the time Wilson had entered the property, and the alpha had been able to warn Bruce Wayne of the intruder before being knocked unconscious. This had given the pack Alpha a crucial, though short, period of time to prepare for the unsanctioned challenge.

The official story indicated that Wayne had sustained several serious injuries before winning the challenge – pure luck in the heat of the moment was all that allowed an Alpha like Brucie Wayne to triumph over an Alpha like Slade Wilson.

The official story was verified by the paramedics first on the scene, as well as the police reports filed by the attending officers. Alfred Pennyworth was able to confirm that he had been able to warn Wayne of the intruder but had not witnessed the fight. Timothy Drake-Wayne had confirmed that the fight had been brutal, bloody, and completely unannounced.

It was, all things considered, as simple and logical a story as the family could put together on such short notice.

* * *

The adjudicator from the Department of Estate Holding and Transfer had come well prepared. Bruce gave the man a smaller version of his “serious” Brucie smile, feigning a wince where his split lip stretched too far. He shifted in his seat, keeping his casted arm awkwardly away from his body until he settled again.

“This was your second challenge, Mr Wayne?” the adjudicator asked quietly, eyeing Bruce over his layers of paperwork.

“Yes, I haven’t fought since… college, I think it was?” Bruce smiled again at the man, a touch regretfully this time. “It wasn’t the most well thought out incident the first time, but it all worked out okay.”

“That occurrence was for the title to a motor vehicle, correct?” The official was finally done shuffling his paperwork around Bruce’s desk, sitting back in his seat to regard Bruce thoughtfully. He wasn’t hostile however – the laws around unsanctioned challenges were clear and left Bruce with the assumed moral and legal high ground. There was little further evidence needed, and Bruce anticipated no issues around sorting out the aftermath of a challenge such as this with an Alpha such as Wilson.

Apart from questions around the mercenary’s motivations for even going after someone such as Bruce Wayne to begin with.

“Yes, I had a Porsche that one of my classmates had taken a shine to. I don’t remember much of the lead-up or the actual fight – I’m afraid I had been rather busy showing a lovely Greek gymnast around campus for a few days – but from what I gather I held my own rather well, under the circumstances.”

“Of course.” All credit, the man didn’t bat an eye at the story, though perhaps drunk college students placing ridiculous stakes on challenges wasn’t too unusual. Unlike professional mercenaries being bested by probably drunk socialites.

“Apart from that I can’t say that I’ve had much experience with challenges. Alfred usually flags anything important for me, and I couldn’t say the last time I’ve had one mentioned to me.” Bruce tried for a charming but confused smile, and the adjudicator shifted slightly again. He nodded, and then seemed to relax.

“Not to worry, Mr Wayne. The circumstances here are rather straight forward for an unsanctioned fight. Has your lawyer spoken to you about this situation?”

Bruce nodded, allowing his gaze to trail across the paperwork more obviously, as though curious. “I have spoken with my lawyer, as the police suggested. He mentioned that standard inheritance rules are nullified by the circumstances of the challenge and gave me some recommendations on how to handle the assets.” The adjudicator smiled and Bruce read the relief in the man’s posture easily. Perhaps the tension earlier was more about Brucie Wayne’s famous lack of intellect or focus and less about the odd nature of the combat itself?

“Excellent,” the official nodded, sliding a file across the desk to within easy reach of Bruce’s injured grasp, “that’s excellent. Hopefully we can get through this without taking up too much more of your time – I’m sure you are still in need of rest so I’ll try to make this quick.”

Bruce listened quietly as the official began to take him through the standard contract jargon – decisions made today would be permanent and binding, the total sum of registered assets would automatically transfer to him should he fail to make a decision, custody of Claimed Omegas would transfer or be revoked within three days, all other transfers would take up to sixty days to process. Any unclaimed alphas, betas, and omegas would not transfer, however any necessary invitations to the victor’s pack would be arranged through the department. Bruce nodded along in a somewhat absent way, allowing the adjudicator to point him to the proper spaces to initial.

The estate itself was easy – so far as Bruce was aware, Slade had had no pack to speak of after his separation from his alpha wife and estrangement from his son. While Bruce had every legal right to take every scrap of property and money that Wilson had publically registered, he had plenty of his own. Adeline Kane was still listed as next-of-kin, and Bruce reckoned she probably could use what money Wilson had listed to help her son more than Bruce needed it. Tim would be able to find the rest of it later, if he wasn’t already on it; there were plenty of institutions in Gotham that could use the funding.

Bruce skimmed the paperwork as the adjudicator spoke. The man, at his word, was going through the items at a quick pace, though Bruce felt the man’s eyes watching him carefully for any… comprehension issues. Keeping his board meeting face on seemed to help, and Bruce carefully signed off on each of the necessary asset releases. If the adjudicator had an opinion on Bruce’s decision to keep none of the assets he didn’t mention it, keeping a carefully professional demeanour.

With a small flourish, Bruce signed off on the acknowledgement at the end of the contract, leaning back in his chair with a slightly exaggerated sigh of relief. “Is that everything?” He asked, keeping just a hint of boredom in his tone, to complement the traces of fatigue and pain.

“Almost,” the official nodded, taking back the folder with the completed and signed contract before sliding another, much thinner, file across to Bruce. “There was almost no pack to speak of for Mr Wilson, so we have only one family member to sort out. In this case, Mr Wilson kept only one Claimed Omega for you to decide on.”

That was… a surprise. Bruce frowned slightly, sitting up and flipping open the file, wondering who Wilson had managed to seduce or coerce into his bed and interested in figuring out how much of a danger they would pose to the family.

“We lack a recent photo – Mr Wilson was not prompt with any updates…”

Bruce barely heard the official as he spoke about the omega, the Claim, the apparent genetic deficiency that led to the boy’s late registration. He would examine that later, when his head wasn’t full of the ghost of a long missing cackle, an eager smile brightening a young face as they flew across the rooftops of Gotham, a small, cheerful presence at his side during every grim night in the city he loved, the city that had taken so much…

“Transfer.” Bruce said, his voice even and calm and not betraying even a hint of the turmoil he felt as he stared down at the photo. Richard Grayson’s face was staring up at him from the file like the ghost of everyone he’d ever failed, and he wouldn’t – couldn’t – let the boy go again.

Never mind that Dick would be in his early twenties now. Never mind that somehow, some way, _Deathstroke_ had gotten his hands on Robin and Bruce, in eight years, had never found out. Never mind that Slade Wilson had _Claimed_ Dick, and had had no problem registering the boy publically…

The adjudicator was speaking again, and Bruce silently signed off on the asset transfer paperwork as each space was pointed out to him.

The official kept speaking as he packed away the completed contracts. Bruce kept his expression vague and knew the other man would read it as exhaustion and physical pain, and not the burning ache of his many and frequent failures. As Alfred appeared in the doorway of the study to lead their guest away Bruce continued to nod, making mindless small talk with the official even as his mind raced ahead, piecing together what he could of the situation presented to him.

Excusing himself from walking the official out himself, Bruce returned to the study, pausing in front of the grandfather clock as he turned it all over and over.

Deathstroke’s knowledge of Batman’s identity would have come shortly after he unmasked Robin. It was unlikely that Robin’s disappearance and Wilson’s registration of the boy under the false details less than a year later were coincidental – whatever Wilson had put Dick through to make him obey would have been time consuming, and so Wilson was the most probable culprit.

Whether it had been a contract, a personal goal, or an opportunistic grab Bruce may never know for sure, but he would absolutely do his best to find out.

The omega presentation was a surprise, too. Leslie had indicated that Dick was showing signs of presenting as an alpha and Bruce had definitely noticed some early signs as well. Nothing was guaranteed until presentation happened, of course, but Dick had bloomed late and so there was more time for things to develop.

Leslie had assured him that gymnasts, acrobats, and dancers often hit puberty late and so Bruce hadn’t worried. The department had the boy diagnosed with a serious hormonal condition though, and now Bruce couldn’t help but wonder what he’d missed.

Or rather, what _else_ had he missed?

* * *

The car smelled faintly of vomit and sweat, still pungent under the cheap air freshener dangling from the rear view mirror. Renegade sat quietly in the back seat, allowing the escorting officer’s voices to wash over him. They were making idle, pointless chatter, completely unnecessary and leaving them distracted and open to exploitation.

Not that he would take the window they were leaving wide open for him. Not today. Today was his final mission for his Alpha, and it was only by Slade’s will that these two useless, soft marks would live.

For now he must be quiet. He must be meek, and soft, and vulnerable. These two would deliver him to his Alpha’s murderer, and in doing so would allow Slade the chance for his final vengeance.

The car pulled up to a tall iron gate, and was admitted to the grounds after a short conversation over the gate intercom. The answering voice had an accent, so it was likely the butler. As the car approached the sprawling Wayne Manor, the officer’s chatter became much more gossipy and less factual, leaving even less value to the noise. Renegade suppressed a sigh – he missed his Alpha. The car pulled to a stop and the rumble of the engine died, leaving only the officer’s school boy squeals of delight and awe.

As his escorts exited the car Renegade sat, waiting patiently to be released from the rear of the disgusting vehicle. The officers left him, however, as an older man in a suit strode down the stone steps at the front of the mansion to greet them. Gritting his teeth, Renegade kept his head tilted down in a properly submissive posture and waited as the two incompetent escorts _chatted_ with the resident.

To pass the time, Renegade went through the plan again, and again. Bruce Wayne had officially bested Slade Wilson in an unsanctioned challenge on his home turf, leading to the death of the intruding Alpha. The official story had no mention of Deathstroke the Terminator, Batman, Robin, or H.I.V.E. It did not mention the docks, where the fight had actually taken place, nor the fact that it hadn’t been a _challenge_ at all, sanctioned or otherwise.

Which all meant that Renegade, as his alias, was now the legal asset of Bruce Wayne until such time as the Claim could be revoked or rejected.

Renegade would not be rejecting the Claim, and he would make _certain_ that Wayne did not either. Slade had ensured he’d had a _very_ thorough education, and there were few who could resist Renegade when he had his mind set on having them.

And when that arrogant, murdering asshole was least expecting it, Renegade would do as his Alpha, his _real_ Alpha, had bid and make the bastard pay.

Glancing out the window at the trio on the steps, the omega forced the tension from his muscles. Perhaps he’d begin with the old man, and make Batman watch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of sleeping, while waiting for news about my cat that I had to take to the vet hospital at 11pm (he's fine, and hopefully learned his lesson about eating random crap out of dumpsters). I couldn't bear to fiddle with it any more, so you get it now! I'm also mostly sure there will be four more chapters. Like, pretty sure. Maybe.
> 
> And a big thank you for the comments and kudos on the first chapter of this mess - it warms my little gremlin heart.

* * *

Bruce wasn’t answering the com, which was just fucking typical. The moralistic asshole just couldn’t admit when Jason was right, choosing instead to avoid him, shut him out. Well, fuck Bruce very much, then.

Jason snorted a little before switching channels, wondering if the Replacement was out and about, or still in tonight, busily covering over their little run in with Deathstroke. Why they couldn’t have just left the body and run Jason couldn’t quite figure out, but then, his style and Bruce’s were vastly different. The Bat was a goddamn control freak.

The Replacement didn’t answer either, so Jason called through to Oracle instead.

“Hood,” came Oracle’s modulated voice, as dry and devoid of emotion as it would have been without the modulator.

“O, hey, been trying to check in.” Jason sighed, fingers reflexively twitching towards the holster on his thigh. “How goes clean-up?”

Barbara was silent long enough that Jason began to think she’d hung up on him.

“It’s gotten… complicated.” She finally said, voice gone soft.

“Complicated.” Jason snipped at Babs drily. “I thought you and Robin said you had this? What’s gotten so _complicated_?” Alright, sue him, he was feeling pissy and petty tonight since apparently nobody had thought to update him in the last three days. _Family_ , yeah right. _Family_ help each other out, even if that means dropping enhanced, murdering dickwads head first off a building to protect certain _secret identities_ even though there wasn’t a _thank you_ to be found after.

“We do,” okay, and now Oracle’s robot voice had the beginning of irritation creeping into it, “but there’s pack and it’s…” She sighed, and Jason snorted.

“Lemme guess. Complicated?” He said, shaking his head.

“Yeah.” Babs said softly.

“Well?” Jason asked, though he really didn’t think it was going to get him anywhere.

“Well, what?”

“ _Well,_ do you feel like sharing with the class?” Jason shook his head again, and leaned back against the brick wall of the rooftop access stairs.

“I don’t know, Hood, do you feel like dropping anyone else off a roof?”

Jason hummed, pretending to consider that for a moment. “I mean, probably. Does this theoretical person deserve it?”

“Goodnight Hood.”

Oracle disconnected, leaving Jason simmering with frustration and old, worn anger.

* * *

The young omega standing quietly in front of the fireplace bore little enough resemblance to Dick that Bruce was certain, for a few heart stopping moments, that he had mistaken the situation. The omega – _Dick_ – was standing in an almost painfully formal submissive posture. Something in Bruce’s chest ached at the silent figure’s stillness, not a trait he had ever associated with his ward.

Turning away from the figure, Bruce turned to the officers escorting his new family member to the manor, giving them the widest Brucie smile he could manage under the circumstances. Luckily, the facial injuries would cover for any awkwardness of expression, and his uneasiness with the situation would be covered by the assumed pain from the other injuries.

“Thank you for bringing him so promptly,” Bruce began, nodding to the sergeant in charge. The young constable beside him was shifting ever so slightly – hopefully a reaction to Bruce’s fame and nothing more. “Do you need anything further from me to confirm that he has made it here safely?”

Bruce signed off the transfer paperwork as quickly as possible, sheer force of will the only thing that kept him focused on the folder and not the omega a bare ten feet away. Formalities completed, Alfred escorted the two officers from the manor, only long association with the man letting Bruce know that Alfred was as loathe to leave the young man as Bruce was.

He had spent so long thinking about this possibility – what he would say if he ever saw Dick again, what he would _do._ The anger he’d felt had long since faded, eight years and four more children giving him a perspective he’d lacked before. _Before._

_Before_ the fight.

_Before_ he’d foolishly left Dick to his own devices.

_Before_ he’d lost the boy, unable to trace him in the city, a week too late to fix anything.

Yes, Bruce had used the years he’d been without Dick to closely examine every possible way he had failed, and every way he could have made it better. He had made the utterly idiotic assumption that Dick wouldn’t do anything rash after their fight, that Alfred would be able to keep him calm and supervised and _safe_. As if Dick hadn’t snuck out many times under both of their watches. As if Dick wasn’t stubborn, and clever, and determined.

If he’d just taken Dick with him, like the boy had wanted, _none_ of this would have happened.

Too late. He’d been far too late for Dick. Jason had suffered for it, and Tim as well. Then there was Damian… Bruce was infinitely grateful that Cass, at least, could read his intentions. It was easier, with her, because she could read what he truly meant when he tried to protect his children, despite his many failures with emotional connections and communicating.

Alfred returned before long, taking up a quietly watchful station by the door. The way that Dick’s eyes flicked towards Alfred was subtle, about what Bruce would expect from someone trained by Deathstroke. He was watching for it, and it was a strong reminder that whatever familiar face the young man wore, he wasn’t the Dick Grayson who had gone missing eight years ago.

Bruce settled himself onto one of the broad couches near the fireplace, but not so close as to offer any request. “Please,” he said gently, keeping his scent and expression even and undemanding, “take a seat. We can go over the rules of the household before getting you settled.”

Dick inclined his head slightly, posture flawless, and moved to kneel at Bruce’s feet, neck tilted to bare his nape. Bruce felt his heart kick up a notch involuntarily at the pose, and the submissive scent now emanating from the young omega. It was weak – perhaps the genetic disorder that Leslie and he had missed – but still there, brushing at Bruce’s instincts to hoard and protect his pack.

Bruce had to centre himself for a moment to deal with this. The scar on Dick’s neck spoke of the claim, and it was clear that Dick was expecting Bruce to do the same. Was _inviting_ it, clear as a bell. There was something intoxicating about the scent, in a way that Bruce had long ago trained himself to resist.

Most people, however, were not Batman. This was a tactic, and a very, _very_ good one. Bruce stood abruptly. He couldn’t deal with this right now after all.

Stepping away from Dick helped him breathe better. He could feel Alfred’s eyes on him from across the room, and couldn’t meet them. Alfred would understand. This was far from the worst thing he’d ever done, and it wasn’t as though Dick remembered them to feel the pain of rejection.

Dick wouldn’t have ever… _presented_ himself in such a manner in the first place.

“What do you prefer to be called? Richard?” Bruce’s voice was heavy but even, the best he could hope for right now. The kneeling figure inclined his head soundlessly, perfectly meek. Bruce’s stomach rolled.

“We have only a few rules here, ones that I hope you find easy to follow. The most important of those is that family comes first, always. We do not have a hierarchy, so fighting other members will not gain you any steps up.” Here, Bruce had to stop for a moment, the memory of another dark haired assassin, another of Bruce’s _sons_ , coming to mind.

_It won’t be like that this time,_ Bruce vowed to himself. Despite the similarities in circumstances, none of his children would suffer for his own mistakes this time.

“This is my family, however Alfred is to be obeyed at all times.” If he’d set the rules of his home properly last time, perhaps the boy would still be here, and not vanished somewhere with Talia. At best.

“Evening meals are taken together in the small dining room. Daily meals are relaxed, and we do not ration food here – you may eat to your own preferences.

“And finally, no member of this family may Claim another, nor bring any Claimed partners into the pack without coming to me first. If someone attempts to Claim you, do not feel anxious about coming to me – if you did not consent to it then we will deal with that as it comes. If you _do_ wish to bond with anyone, I am more than happy to discuss it with you. Being a member of this pack brings certain attention that you may not be used to, so please understand that you are under my protection, and family here, as I mentioned earlier, always comes first.”

He wasn’t good at this. He knew that the young man didn’t believe him – was it his own awkward attempts at reassurance that caused that mistrust, or his time with Deathstroke that did it? – but Bruce had to try.

Ironically, it was Dick himself that had always had a flair for people, that had always been able to comfort victims and infuriate opponents and charm the high society snobs that Bruce had introduced him to with equal amounts of ease.

Dick wasn’t here. There was only this damaged young man and Bruce himself. Bruce refused to leave the emotional work to Alfred – he would do this himself, and no matter how stumbling and awkward the start, and he would get it _right_. He had to. There was no choice.

“Alfred can take you to your room now. I hope you find the manor welcoming – we are very happy to have you join us.” Bruce tore his eyes from the silent figure and turned to leave. He couldn’t do this.

There was something he _could_ do, however, and it was high time he got to the bottom of this.

* * *

The room that the older man brought him to was… odd. Renegade had expected a guest room of some type, or perhaps servant’s quarters, until the Claim was established and consummated. The way that the Alpha had been looking at him in the parlour – Renegade had been expecting something… not this.

This room was clearly lived in, though the general mustiness of the room indicated it had not been lived in _recently_. Perhaps this was a standard omega’s room? For any passing fancies the leader of the pack had? He’d done his research and Bruce Wayne was not known for his long attention span, and he certainly hadn’t seemed as taken with Renegade as alphas usually were.

And yet…

Renegade was keenly aware of the butler’s eyes on him as he moved about the room. He looked over the bookshelf, eyeing the classic literature and science fiction with curiosity. His education had leaned towards non-fiction more than this type of writing, but he wasn’t averse to some of the titles on display.

The bed had an incongruously rough, cheerful knitted throw over expensive linens and what was most likely a real down comforter, from the scent. There were two posters on the wall over the bed, both for a circus, and a similar poster framed in glass over the cluttered desk.

Briefly eyeing the papers on the desk that resembled schoolwork, Renegade moved towards the poster, feeling a pull deep in his chest. He shouldn’t be exposing this kind of weakness with the alpha watching, but that seemed less important in this moment.

There were three figures on the poster, dressed in brightly colored outfits of green, red, and yellow. The two taller figures each had one hand upraised, with their other hands resting on the shoulders of the smaller, central figure.

_Parents,_ he thought, _that’s their son._

_HALEY’S CIRCUS presents THE FLYING GRAYSONS,_ the poster proudly proclaimed, several figures on a trapeze in the background of the advertisement. The faces were vaguely depicted but still looked familiar, though it was somehow deeper than that.

Renegade tore his eyes from the familiar figures to turn and examine the posters over the bed more closely. There were two clowns with a juggling figure on a unicycle behind them. There was a lion being held at bay, an elephant rearing in the background.

There was a stuffed elephant on the bed, several bald patches of fur attesting to how well loved the toy was. Had been.

He looked back at the Flying Graysons poster, something in his chest pulling tight at the sight. It wasn’t a bad feeling though, not at all. It felt like…

He didn’t know what it felt like.

“Where did he go?” Renegade asked, his mouth working without his conscious permission. His Alpha would beat him for such a lack of control, but his Alpha was dead. He _needed_ to know.

The butler sighed lightly, a crease appearing between his brows as he moved to stand beside Renegade. “We did not know, for a very long time. We lost him, though we may be very, very lucky, and he may yet come home again.”

Renegade stared at the butler for what felt like hours, though was, in reality, only a few minutes. He watched the butler stare at the poster, a sheen in his eyes that made something in Renegade twist uncomfortably.

He had intended to murder this man, and yet. And yet…

If he couldn’t watch the man cry without an emotional reaction, he wasn’t sure he would be able to torture the alpha. It felt… _wrong._ It shouldn’t, but it did.

“Lucky?” Renegade asked hoarsely, an unforgivable lapse of control. Being in this room was terribly disorienting in a way that Renegade had never experienced, not even through the most brutal training his Alpha had devised. It felt as though there was something he was missing, or perhaps forgetting.

“Yes,” the butler sighed, “as lucky as this family ever is.” The man turned to Renegade with a fractured smile. “We have learned well the truth in the old saying, _be careful what you wish for_.”

“I don’t understand.” Renegade said, but it felt like a lie. The words were ash on his tongue, and he felt as though the butler knew it. If he did the alpha was kind enough to take his words at face value, merely inclining his head as though to say _just so_.

It all felt… It was all so…

“Would you care for some cocoa before bed, Master Richard?”

Richard. Richard was the cover name for his registration. Richard Grey. Richie. Ric.

_Dick._

“What?” He asked, feeling six feet under water and completely lost. The butler was watching him with that little crease between the eyes again, unobtrusive concern scenting the air. What the hell was wrong with him?

“I usually prepare the family a hot drink before bed, to help them settle. I would be pleased to offer you some cocoa if you like? Something sweet and rich may help you relax. You have had quite the unsettling few days and change can be difficult.”

“That sounds wonderful,” he found himself saying, once again on some sort of autopilot, “thank you.”

The butler merely inclined his head and turned away. “I shall bring some up directly. Please do make yourself at home, young man; we are quite pleased to have you.”

Renegade stood in front of the poster for a long time after that, unable to tear himself away. The figures, smiling but indistinct, and the way those several people were suspended in the air; it called to something in him.

_Flying Graysons… flying…_

* * *

Alfred set the cup of tea by Bruce’s elbow, a somewhat pointed reminder of self-care that Alfred had yet to drill into his first ward’s head in any lasting way, it seemed. Judging by the generally haggard appearance of the man, Alfred felt he still had much work to do in that department.

He cleared his throat in a not so subtle hint, and Bruce absently reached for the mug, eyes not leaving the screens arrayed in front of him.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred began, feeling the worry creep up on him once again, “you really must rest. It has been two days since you slept, and you are unlikely to solve this mystery in the next few hours.

“Master Richard is home and safe, for the moment. He will need you to be present come morning, to help him settle in. To help him remember.”

“I’ll be able to help him more when I know what that _bastard_ did to him.” Bruce growled, every inch the protective pack Alpha. His tone sparked a strong pheromone response, and Alfred sighed. Bruce’s instincts to retreat and self-flagellate when faced with his own mistakes had been something Alfred had been trying to help him deal with since the boy was eight. So far, with very little success.

The sound of a motorcycle entering the cave was a welcome distraction from his current predicament. At least his surrogate grandchildren often showed more sense than their mentor, even if it was only in small amounts.

The heavy footfalls of the newcomer’s approach let Alfred know it was Jason that had come home. He _hoped_ the boy knew that he always had a home here, at least. The rift between Bruce and his first adopted son was deep, though that was perhaps more due to their similarities than their actual disagreements.

He turned towards the young man as he strode up the gangway from the parking area, the slightly ridiculous (in Alfred’s opinion, _not_ that his fashion advice was often heeded) helmet releasing with a _hiss_ of compressed air as the boy removed it.

“Master Jason,” Alfred greeted him warmly, aware of Bruce swiveling the chair to watch them.

“Hey Alf,” Jason said, pleasure coloring both his tone and scent, “I was in the area and thought I’d stop by.”

Truer words had definitely been spoken – Jason was not in the habit of hanging around Bristol regularly – but Alfred merely inclined his head. “You are always welcome here, my boy, and it does my heart good to see you. Would you care for a mug of something hot – some cocoa, perhaps? It always was your favorite.”

Jason’s lips twitched in the tiniest of smiles and he nodded, ducking his head. “That’d be great, thanks Alfred.”

“You are welcome, and I shall fetch it directly.” Alfred turned towards the stairs, almost able to feel the animosity spring to life behind him as he retreated.

No, Jason had not just _been in the area_. Unfortunately there was little Alfred could do for either of them, except hope that this time, it would not get out of hand. A vain hope, perhaps, but one that Alfred lived for.

And until it came true he would do as he always had done – serve the family, and endure.


End file.
